


Alternative Action

by BeautyGraceOuterSpace



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Jim needs a hug, Kelvin Timeline but Different, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Slavery, Starfleet, Younger Jim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-08 04:24:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17379491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyGraceOuterSpace/pseuds/BeautyGraceOuterSpace
Summary: (AU) When Leonard McCoy runs into a blond kid beaten to hell on the streets of San Francisco three years after the events of the Battle of Vulcan, he could never have expected the sequence of events that would follow. Upon learning that the kid is none other than James T. Kirk, adopted ward of Captain Christopher Pike, his former commanding officer, he sets about trying to find out what's happened to the kid since he saw him last-- and why he's so scared. Forced to reconnect with his old coworkers and friends as they band together to help the family of a man they all respect, they uncover secrets they could not have dreamed of... and set in motion events that may bring about the return of the Federation.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go... my first AU. I'm quite excited about this one, and quite nervous as well. Any and all feedback is appreciated. As always, many thanks to my delightful editor, RaisinsforSunday. Now on with the show...

San Francisco, as per usual, had a sharp wind with a bite to it, even in the late days of Spring.  Len shivered against the cool breeze, sniffling irritably at the sharp, damp smell of sea water it carried as he pulled his jacket tighter around him. How he missed Georgian summers.

Trudging along through the crowds of people milling around he made his way slowly back to his apartment. He was coming off a string of four sixteen hour days in a row and he was exhausted. He’d have to see about rescheduling his dinner plans with Spock; the Vulcan had said he had something important to discuss, but it wasn’t going to do either of them any good if he couldn’t keep his eyes open long enough to hear whatever it was.

He’d just have to see if they could meet after he’d had a nap. Or a good night’s sleep. Or a shower. Maybe all of the above.

His train of thought was broken by the low sounds of a scuffle nearby. Raising an eyebrow in curiosity, he glanced around, peering into the nearby alleyways between passersby until he spotted the source. There, against the brick wall of one of the older buildings in the area, a shop employee had a kid pinned up against the wall by his collar, slamming him against the wall and jostling him roughly every now and then as their mouths moved in a heated argument.

Len’s feet were moving before he had registered the idea to move closer, though everything in him was screaming to carry on oblivious to the commotion like the wiser, probably _saner_ crowd milling about, but all too soon he found himself at the mouth of the alley.

He had just opened his mouth to speak when the kid-- apparently unaware of his precarious circumstances and the fact that law enforcement was probably on their way at that very moment-- spat something that he didn’t quite catch but that sounded particularly cutting at the shopkeep, and received a fist to the face for his trouble.

Caught off guard, he went down hard. Len watched with morbid curiosity as the shopkeeper, moving quickly, reached down and clutched aimlessly at the nape of the kid’s neck, hauling him clumsily to his knees, chest heaving.

He clearly didn’t expect for the kid to come up swinging.

“Hey!” Len called, rushing forward as the blond’s own fist narrowly missed the employee’s head, hoping to put a stop to things before they got too out of hand.

Both men turned at the sound of his cry. The kid was scrawnier than hell and looked far too wary for his age, his big blue eyes not quite trained on the ground, but not quite making eye contact either. There was something familiar about him, but Len couldn't place it. As the man who had been holding him there released him reluctantly, the kid brought an arm up to wrap around his ribs cautiously, every line of his posture reminiscent of a cornered animal.

“What seems to be the problem?” Len asked, gaze darting between the two; the kid opened his mouth, a retort hot on his lips, but Len shot him a look. The young man was in enough trouble already without opening his mouth, and wisely, he took Len’s unspoken advice to zip it. “Either of you hurt?” he asked disapprovingly, moving forward once more.

The shopkeeper waved him off, but the younger man remained silent, eyes not quite trained on the ground but not making eye contact, either. Medical instinct kicking in, Len automatically reached for the arm wrapped tightly around the kid’s middle, hoping to get a feel for whatever damage was done to his ribs-- already making a visual diagnosis-- only to have it jerked quickly away from his reach.

“Don’t touch me,” the blond hissed, glowering at Len through his shaggy bangs, “I’m fine.”

Len shot him a look telling him just what he thought of that load of horse shit as the shopkeeper chimed in, eager to tell his tale to a sympathetic third party, “Caught this one trying to steal from me-- caught him red handed, and he bolted.”

“I _told_ you,” the kid ground out, rolling his shoulders and trying to shake the hand off of his neck, “I wasn’t _stealing_ , I’m staying with my cousin and I forgot his credit chip in my jacket when I left--”

Len could see the irritable disbelief in the worker’s expression before the kid had finished speaking. Before he could fully process what he was doing, he heard himself say: “I’m sorry about that--” he said, and then, before he could fully process what he was doing, “he’s _my_ cousin, staying with me for a while.” The man still looked skeptical.  Lowering his voice, he leaned closer and murmured conspiratorially, “I’ll level with you,” he squinted to make out the name on his identifying tag, “Miller. He’s had some rough breaks here and there and were working things out--  new lease on life and all that.” Pointedly ignoring the bewildered look the kid was giving him he continued, “I asked him to be sure he had the credits I gave him before he went-- he clearly forgot. I’ll pay it right here, right now. Hell, I’ll double it for the trouble. How much do I owe?”

He watched the man’s eyes narrow suspiciously as he glanced from the blond slowly back to Len. Len could only hope that he didn’t feel like dealing with the hassle of pressing charges; who the hell knew what was in this kids record, and searching either of their names would very quickly prove that he was lying.

Luckily, he just nodded his acceptance and held out a hand for the credit chip, which Len offered up immediately with only the slightest pang of regret.

“How much do I owe?” he asked again, already mentally doing the math in his head and hoping he could afford whatever the kid had been trying to take.

“Not much,” the guy replied with a shrug. “He dropped what he had before he ran, so typically I wouldn’t charge, but he broke a few jars running out.” With that, he turned and went inside to run the credits.

Len wanted nothing more than to collapse with relief the instant he was out of sight, back around the corner he’d come around to begin with. He pulled himself up to his full height, fully aware that he was alone with a possibly volatile criminal, but ready to put an end to this situation.

“The hell were you trying to take, kid?” he asked incredulously.

The blond mumbled something under his breath as he swiped away a small trickle of blood from his lip; clearly the employee’s punch had caught him good.

Len bit the inside of his cheek as he prayed for patience. “Mind repeating that?”

“I said,” the kid scowled, glowering at him. “What’s it to you, old man?”

Len blinked slowly as he replied lowly, “Where I’m from, we thank someone when they do us a favor.”

The kid just stared back at him, glaring even harder if it was possible.

It was then that Miller returned with his credit chip. The charge had been minuscule, thank God.

Staring the kid down, just a hint of spite in his gaze, he asked, “What was he st--picking up?”

The employee glanced between the two. “Uh, some bread. Did you still need some, fella?”

“No,” Len replied, watching the kid’s facade crack just a little under the revelation. “No, I think it’s best if I take my cousin home… see to that lip.”

Miller returned to his shop. Len stayed in the alley, staring at the kid and wondering what the hell had just happened.

He hadn’t really thought this out to begin with; something in him had been moved to help the kid when he was so clearly in distress and need of help but now what? He was staring at the kid with an intensity that was probably disturbing, but he couldn’t help it.

Hell if he knew what to do.

The blond’s expression had gone from astonished to distrusting to defiant in record time. After Len had stood there gawking like an idiot for a few moments, the kid said brashly, clearly impatient, “So what now, old man, gonna stand there staring all day? If you’re looking for a ‘thank you’ fuck, you’re looking in the wrong place.”

Len gawped at him, thoroughly at a loss for what the hell he was supposed to say to _that_ , but the kid was looking at him expectantly. His narrowed eyes met Len’s gaze briefly as he raised his brows as if to say, “ _Well? What are you waiting for_?”

But there was something else in his expression, too. Confusion. Pain. Fear. For all he was trying to put on a tough guy front, it was easy to see that the kid was terrified.

Life, it seemed, had not been kind to this young man.

An older, better off fella had given Len a second chance once, years ago, and offered him a future. Maybe, just maybe, he could do that for someone else.

But like hell was he gonna put up with that kind of talk.

“You have two options here,” he said softly, his accent coming out thick with frustration, “You can shut up and come with me so I can patch you up and hell, maybe get a hot meal into you before we figure out where the hell you’re gonna go next or you can go right back to what you were doing. But I tell you something, what just happened here?” he gestured around the alley with a finger and a glance, “That’s not a chance you’re gonna get twice, kid.”

After a long pause, the blond replied, “What makes you think I need-- ‘patching up’?” he asked. “Or food?”

Len leveled him with a look. “Give me some credit, kid. You’re favoring your ribs, your mouth is bleeding and you were stealing a loaf of bread, for chrissakes.” Turning on his heel, hitching his collar up around his ears and shoving his hands into his pockets to hide the adrenaline fueled trembling that had begun, he called over his shoulder, “You comin’ or what?”

He couldn’t say he was expecting one outcome over another; the kid didn’t know him and Len sure as hell wouldn’t go home with a stranger, no matter how well-intentioned they seemed. But he couldn’t say he was disappointed to hear the footsteps hesitantly following him, either.

 

* * *

 

Out of all of his colossally stupid ideas-- experimenting with absinthe, marrying Jocelyn, giving up his custody rights-- this had to be the stupidest.

What the _fuck_ was he supposed to do now? Like hell was he going to let this strange law breaking young man into his house. And yet…

The kid was injured; he’d gotten punched in the face and taken a fall, and if the way he was walking was any indication, he’d been injured before that as well.

And he was hungry.

And scared.

The asshole in him screamed to just cut the kid loose, that he was in too deep already and was risking a hell of a lot for someone who’s name he didn’t even know. But the doctor in him…

The doctor in him wasn’t about to let this young man run off to god-knows-where injured and alone and clearly terrified, though he was doing his damndest not to show it.

He had trailed Len the whole way back to his apartment, and Len had felt his eyes boring into his back the entirety of the trip.

Arriving at his building he hesitated outside the door, hand already on the keypad to punch in the code for entry. With a bracing breath, he turned to his follower and spoke.

“I’ll let you in on one condition,” he said, trying his best not to sound hostile as he did so.

The kid still looked cautious, a defensive expression falling over his face as he narrowed his eyes slightly and licked his lips nervously. “And what’s that?”

“Tell me your name.”

After a long pause, so long Len was almost sure the kid was going to refuse, he answered.

“Jim.”

Len rolled his eyes, facing the door to unlock it. “And is there a last name to go with that?”

“Kirk.”

Len froze with a sharp inhale, turning slowly to face the kid-- Jim, his name was… he was--

Swallowing hard, he managed to croak out, “Did you say _Kirk?_ Jim _Kirk?”_

Eyeing him nervously, Jim replied cautiously, “Yes?”

_Holy shit._

_Jesus H. Christ_.

“Do--” he faltered momentarily, composing himself and facing Jim fully, searching his eyes for his response. “Do you by chance know the name Capt-- Christopher Pike?”

Jim’s eyes widened, and it would have been comical if his expression wasn’t so damn hopeful, an earnest vulnerability overcoming him and making him look even younger than he was. “Chris?” he replied desperately. “You know Chris? Where is he? Is he--”

“Kid,” Len began apologetically. “They didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what? Is he hurt? I--”

“Kid,” he repeated, bracing a hand against Jim’s shoulder in spite of the flinch it prompted. “Pike-- Pike’s dead.”


	2. Chapter 2

Len had tried to make the words as gentle as he could, in spite of the fact that he knew  _ exactly _ who this kid was and  _ exactly _ why he had come back to San Francisco. If he remembered correctly from several long, off the record nights of Pike asking for his advice in dealing with the kid, he also knew exactly why Jim was so defensive and flinchy, and God only knew what had happened to him since-- 

“He’s dead?” Jim repeated numbly, his previously hopeful expression immediately replaced with a careful mask of neutrality. “When?” 

Len blinked hard against the dull pain of remembrance as he answered, “It’ll be three years this May.” 

Jim balked, a realization coming over him before he once again averted his gaze. 

“Christ,” Len murmured in disbelief. “No one told you? I can’t believe--” 

Jim shrugged evasively, fixing his eyes on the ground. “No one told me,” he affirmed, shoving his hands into his pockets. 

Len watched him for a few moments-- trying to determine if the kid was going into shock or something else-- before deciding that the least he could offer was some privacy from public viewing if the he needed to break down. Punching in his entry code, he ushered Jim inside and led him to his apartment. Jim followed without protest. 

Len felt a hell of a lot better about having him in his home now that he knew he wasn’t just some stranger, but Captain Pike’s  _ kid _ , for all intents and purposes. Hell, he’d never met him before but he’d seen holos of the kid when he younger; Pike had asked him plenty about what to do for Jim once he got custody of him after Tarsus-- and Christ, if Jim was hungry enough to steal food Lord only knew what was going through his mind, having lived through that. 

Jim hovered awkwardly in the entry as Len made a beeline for the kitchen, punching in a sequence on the replicator to get him a hot meal and something to drink. He personally needed something stronger, and he poured himself a few fingers of bourbon as the machine did it’s work. 

Balancing the plate on one hand, the glass of water tucked firmly into the crook of his elbow as he scooped up his own drink with his other hand, he nodded towards his couch in invitation. “Come sit,” he called for added reassurance. 

Jim obeyed, perching on the edge of a cushion and wrapping his arms loosely around himself as he took in his surroundings, all belligerence drained out of him after the revelation that Len had known Pike. Len’s apartment was sparse, barely decorated and hardly unpacked. He spent most of his time at work, and didn’t have much call to entertain beyond the occasional visit from one of the old crew; most of the time he was able to convince them to meet elsewhere. It had never felt like home, not really. He had never been bothered enough to change that; Jim didn’t seem too concerned, either. 

Poor kid was probably just happy to be inside, away from the cold and not under arrest. 

Sliding the plate onto the low coffee table in front of his tattered couch, he set the glass of water down next to it and settled himself into the armchair that sat kitty-corner from Jim’s seat. The kid eyed him carefully, his expression carefully neutral, only the barest hint of suspicion leaking through as Len sipped at his bourbon. The stuff was cheap as hell and bitter as sin, but it did the trick. 

Pointing idly at the plate with a nod Len said, “Go on, eat. ‘S gonna get cold the longer you let it sit there. We’ll talk when you’re finished.” 

Jim raised his gaze from where he’d been eyeing Len’s drink distrustfully. Hesitantly, he picked up his fork and poked at the meal, a simple pasta dish with a light sauce. Quick and easy carbs and fats, chosen to hopefully perk the kid up a bit and give him the energy to make it through a few awkward questions and-- if Len was lucky-- a medical evaluation. He was still favoring his ribs and when he moved Len caught sight of a few drops of blood staining the folds of his shirt. 

After several moments of silence, when Len’s drink was long drained and Jim had picked his way through more than half of his food, he spoke again. “I’m guessin’ you have questions.” It was stated as a fact, and Jim seemed to take it as permission. 

Glancing at Len through his too long blond fringe, he said softly, “How did he die?” 

“It’s... complicated,” Len began. “Did you ever see anything on the holofeeds about Nero and the Battle of Vulcan?” 

“I know about the Battle of Vulcan,” Jim affirmed, and Len nodded. 

“That’s when it happened,” he replied. “Starfleet received a distress signal from Vulcan and shipped out to offer aid… it was an ambush. Flew right into a trap and-- well, I’m sure you’ve heard all of this before.” 

The decimation of the ‘Fleet had changed the Federation forever. With over 80% of the active duty officers killed in the attack, and leaving behind only a few hundred lower class cadets aside from the few surviving upperclassmen, they were still trying to come back to their former glory. Lack of leadership and the destruction of most of their ships had made progress slow; even all these years later, they were barely staying afloat. Without the ‘fleet to enforce policies, the Federation was in shambles. Treaties hung by threads and illegal activity had skyrocketed in the years following the battle. It was a mess of catastrophic proportions. 

Jim looked pensive where he sat, brows furrowed and absently tugging at his little finger. “That-- explains a lot, actually,” he finally said, his voice distant and distracted, deep in thought. “I always kind of figured, but--” 

Len gave him the time to blink himself back to the present; if he was remembering correctly, Jim would have been sixteen when Pike had been called to head off the Vulcan relief effort with the ‘Fleet’s flagship. Len knew the kid’s family life prior to his time living with the captain had been tumultuous at best, often violent and abusive, to say nothing of his time off planet. And Jim had said no one ever told him what had actually happened; Len couldn’t imagine what Jim had to be thinking at that moment. 

Cautiously, keeping his tone gentle, he continued. “He was taken hostage by Nero-- gave himself up in exchange for our lives.” 

Jim’s eyes snapped to his, “Our--?” 

“His crew,” Len clarified. “I was made CMO of the ship after the initial casualties onboard.” 

Hell of a way to get a promotion. 

“Oh.” Jim’s tongue darted across his split lip. “CMO-- so you’re a doctor?” 

Len nodded in affirmation. “I’m a doctor. And if you’re willing, I’d like to look you over… make sure those ribs are ok.”

He could practically see the kid’s walls start going back up. His expression morphed into something taunting and provocative, any unease that had been present fading away behind forced bravado and just a touch too much swagger. 

“Whatever you want, man,” Jim drawled with a shrug. “But really you don’t have to go to the trouble. You’ve done more than enough.” 

Len waved off his excuses as he rose to fetch his kit. “It’s no trouble at all, kid. It’s my job.” 

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Jim called after him, “I can’t exactly pay you or anything--” 

Len scoffed lightly under his breath. “Not asking you to.” Then, propping a hip on the coffee table so he was in front of Jim and at relatively the same level, “Shirt off, if you don’t mind.” 

Eyeing him suspiciously, Jim asked, “Why are you doing this?” 

Looking at the kid’s cautious expression, the utter seriousness in his eyes and the tense lines of his posture, Len knew that whatever he said next would be a make or break moment in gaining Jim’s trust. 

With a deep breath he said, “Because you’re hurt and I can do something about it.” 

Jim wasn’t phased. “But  _ why _ ?” he repeated, emphasizing his words more strongly as though Len had missed the question the first time. 

“Because I’m a doctor, and it’s my job. And if that’s not good enough for you, then because Christopher Pike was a hell of a man and I owe it to him to take care of the people he cared about.” 

Jim’s eyes softened, his eyebrows unfurrowing slightly as he pondered that response. Swallowing heavily, and with a quickly disguised flicker of unease, he wrapped his fingers around the hem of his shirt and hoisted it swiftly over his head, clutching the fabric tightly in his hands as his torso was exposed. Len did his best not to gape; the kid was thin as a rail, bones jutting out and casting shadows against his skin, and covered in bruises. 

“Jesus, kid…” he muttered, “when’s the last time you ate? You’re--”

With a self conscious roll of his eyes, Jim interrupted, “If you say skin and bones, I swear to god--”

“How about just  _ bones _ ?” Len scoffed, fingers ghosting around the livid purple wrapping the kid’s side. “Pretty sure I could thread my fingers through your ribs.” 

“... that’s a disgusting mental image.”

“Yeah, well,” Len trailed off, snatching up a tricorder to scan for a more detailed list of hurts.

Over the quiet whir of the device Jim asked, “So what should I call you anyway? You haven’t told me your name.” 

With an apologetic nod, he replied, “McCoy. Leonard McCoy.” 

Jim blinked, arms raised awkwardly as Len poked and prodded at his injuries. “Leonard McCoy?” he repeated quietly, rolling the syllables around languidly before nodding his acceptance. “Ok, then. What do you want me to call you? Doctor? Sir?”  

Len had felt the kid tense under his hands when he said that latter, and he once again got the niggling feeling that whatever had happened to him was bigger than just having a rough time of it on his own. Gesturing for Jim to raise his arms a bit more as he fetched some bandages from his kit to wrap his ribs, he gruffly instructed, “Drop the honorifics, please.”

“Then what should I call you? You don’t look like a Leonard to me.” 

“Yeah, well, take it up with my mama,” Len replied. Focusing on his task, winding the stark white wraps around Jim’s torso with quick sure motions-- and noting the scars that lurked beneath the livid mottling of the skin-- he continued, “Call me whatever you want, smartass.”

After a moment of thought, Jim declared, “Bones it is.” 

“What?” 

“Bones,” he repeated. Then, at Len’s incredulous look which clearly questioned the kid’s sanity, “What? You’re the one with the weird obsession with my skeletal structure.” 

Len stammered on his response, choosing to let the argument die with a, “Whatever you say, kid.” With a frown, he tied off the bandages and picked up the tricorder, sighing softly at the readout. Malnourished. Three broken ribs. Low blood pressure and more than a few bumps and bruises. And--

Reaching forward, ignoring the kid’s poorly disguised flinch and taking hold of his chin to turn his head just so, Len eyed the scar behind his ear, thin and raised against the skin, a small rectangular outline just visible to the naked eye. 

Narrowing his eyes, he blurted, “What the hell is that?” 

“Um-- it’s--” 

“Is that a data chip?” Len growled incredulously, his right hand still holding firmly to Jim’s chin as the fingertips of his left brushed back the too long hair threatening to cover the small incision scar he had uncovered. “ _Beneath_ your skin?” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to jimkirkachu and anxiously-going on tumblr for helping me out with proofreading this time around. In other news, I'm hoping to add a new chapter once a week to this fic, most likely on Fridays or weekends, so keep an eye out for those future updates! As always, let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!

Things went to shit faster than Len could have anticipated. With that single question, Jim had started trembling beneath his hand, clutching the couch cushion he was perched on with white knuckles as he tried again to stammer out a reply. 

“It’s--” 

Releasing Jim’s chin, Len rearranged himself, turning so he was eye-to-eye with the blond before he spoke and trying not to be alarmed as the blood drained from the kid’s face, leaving him gray.

Taking a deep breath and keeping his tone carefully neutral, he said “Look, kid. I want to help you out here... but I can’t do that unless you start telling me what the hell is going on. You’re in bad shape-- and clearly you’ve been in a bad way for a while. Level with me, Jim… are you in trouble?” 

“I-- it’s--I’m sorry,” Jim finally managed to say, his voice strained as his posture shifted and he began scooting back along the cushions towards the door. The cockiness he had been displaying throughout the day gave way to pure panic, and Jim tried to smile through it but it fell pathetically short. “Look, I appreciate what you’ve done-- I do, honestly-- and I’ll… I’ll pay you back somehow. Just-- I’ll just get out of your hair and-- just… please, no cops,” he implored. “ _ Please. _ I’ll go--” 

“Whoa, whoa,” Len interrupted his panicked rambling, raising his hands placatingly, “who said anything about cops, kid? If I was gonna get the authorities involved, don’t you think I would have done it already? I just want to know what we’re dealing with here; it’s not every day you find a data chip implanted in someone’s skull.” 

He had hoped that his use of “we” would calm the kid some, let him know he wasn’t alone and Len wasn’t just going to drop him like an old boot now that he knew for certain Jim was hiding something. Unfortunately, Jim didn’t seem to be in a fit state to catch nuance and continued his babbling. 

Pitching his voice low, he kept up his efforts to persuade Len. “Seriously, I’ll get out of here. You’ve done more than enough, really.” The gratitude in his tone was lessened slightly by the fear in his eyes as he kept inching away. He snatched up his shirt and dragged it roughly over his head as he stood, the blood stains near the collar and the frantic look on his face painting a grim picture of desperation. “I appreciate it-- just-- don’t tell anyone you saw me, ok? It’s better that way--” 

The alarm bells going off in Len’s head started blaring. For all his posturing, Jim was damn near hyperventilating-- and from his reaction Len was sure he wouldn’t like the answer to his question, either. 

Desperately hoping to calm the situation before the kid bolted-- or worse, passed out in his living room-- Len reached out and wrapped a hand gently around Jim’s nearest wrist. Jim flinched hard at the contact, but his rambling ceased, and his quick breaths stopped altogether with a gasp. 

“Deep breaths, kid,” Len instructed softly. “We’re not going to any cops. I’m not kickin’ you out, I’m sure as hell not gonna do anything to hurt you-- and I’d prefer you stay right here, for the time being.” 

Jim met his eyes nervously, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he shakily exhaled and, after a moment of deliberation, nodded stiffly. 

“Now then,” Len continued, keeping his hold on the blond’s wrist, “knowing that, do y’think you could answer a few questions for me so I know how to help you?” 

Jim shut his slightly open mouth with a click of teeth, his eyes searching Len’s face as he pondered his next move. Finally, eyes still on the door and in a voice that was just above a whisper, he croaked out, “You knew Chris?” 

Len heard the call for reassurance that Jim could trust him and nodded slowly. “I knew Chris.” 

Some of the tension bled out of Jim’s form as he frowned thoughtfully. Another long pause. “You’re a doctor.” 

Again, Len nodded in affirmation. “I’m a doctor.” 

Jim stared at him a moment longer before an idea struck him. Shifting on the couch, he angled himself so he could get a hand into the pocket of the torn and dingy jeans he wore. In one swift movement, he withdrew his hand, reached for Len’s wrist, and slapped something into his palm before pulling away and wrapping his arms loosely around himself, embarrassed. Confused, Len turned it over in his hand. 

A coin. A single, dented and dull antique earth coin. 

A silver dollar. 

“Kid, what--”

“Doctor patient confidentiality,” Jim stated, his cheeks heating as he stared at his lap. “For the bandages and stuff. I paid you and… and that makes you my doctor, right?” 

Whatever would make the kid feel more comfortable. 

Nevermind that coins no longer held currency in the Federation. Nevermind that this particular coin was hardly worth the metal it was made from. Nevermind that declaration of patient care required forms and documents and signatures and comprehensive exams and so much more than the bare necessities of providing some bandages for someone who was bleeding in his living room. 

Jim needed someone to be on his side, that much was clear. If the small gesture helped him to trust, then who was Len to deny him that? 

“Right.” 

Jim was visibly relieved. “Ok… then you have to keep whatever I say a secret, right?” 

Len nodded cautiously. He didn’t bother with the usual follow-up. In typical situations, he would have informed a patient that they had his promise unless there was a danger to themselves or others, but there was nothing typical about this. Nothing at all. 

“I do,” he said, drawing out the word slightly. They were heading into fuzzy legal territory, but he wasn’t complaining either way. 

Swallowing hard and clearly bracing himself-- if the way his hands tightened around his arms was any indication-- Jim began. 

“It’s-- the--” he waved absently towards the scar, tilting his head to show Len, though his hair hid the mark well, “it’s a-- an identifier.” 

“An identifier?” Len asked, blinking in confusion. “And what does it identify?” 

Jim scowled, a dark expression clouding his features as he rolled his shoulders forward, hunching over himself. “That I’m property.”

With those three words, Len’s train of thought came to a screeching halt. 

“That you’re…  _ what? _ ” he managed, his voice strained with confusion as Jim scowled at the floor. Len’s own eyes were drawn again to the small stretch of skin behind Jim’s ear.

Jim sniffed angrily, giving a half shrug with one shoulder. “It’s complicated.” 

“Ok,” Len drawled, rubbing his palms together anxiously. “Help me understand.” 

Jim’s eyes met his for a brief moment. “What do you want to know?” 

Ah, so Len would have to lead the conversation. Great. 

He had so many questions.  _ Who did that to you? Have you been participating in illegal activities? How bad did things get? How much trouble are you in? _ But first things first…

Jim looked angry and lost, and he was blinking hard as he tried-- and failed-- to maintain a neutral expression. The news of Pike’s death had shocked him to his core and he was alone in a major city with someone who was essentially a stranger to him and no other options. It couldn’t hurt to get to know the kid a little, first. 

“For starters, how old are you now, nineteen? Twenty?” 

Jim blinked quickly, a brief expression of shock crossing his face as he remembered that-- at least in some small way-- Len knew who he was. “Nineteen,” he replied. “I turned nineteen in January.” 

Nineteen. Nineteen years old and already been through hell and back god only knew how many times. No teenager should have the look in their eye that Jim did. That desperate, barely lingering hope shrouded by constant and weary vigilance and suspicion. He was just a goddamn  _ kid _ , for chrissakes. One emotional blow from a breakdown and-- from what Len could tell-- alone in the world without a friend or a doorway to darken. 

Deciding to risk it and stop pulling his punches, Len asked, “What happened to you after… everything?” 

Jim scoffed, the sound more tired than bad-tempered. “A lot of shit, man,” he sighed. “A lot of bad shit.”  

“Where did you go?” 

Jim glanced at him again. “After the Battle of Vulcan?” At Len’s nod, he continued grimly. “Got shipped back to Iowa.” 

Len had been afraid of that. He hadn’t been informed of too many of the sordid details of the kid’s past, but he had scattered memories of Pike coming to him during his academy years and asking for his professional opinion on Jim’s situation. A history of abuse and malnourishment led to some understandable side effects, and Pike had sought Len’s council rather than dragging the kid to office after office for evaluation. From what Len had gathered at the time, they had the added bonus that Jim-- as a general rule--  _ despised _ doctors. It had been less stressful for him for Pike to handle as much as he could without Jim’s active participation, and luckily for the captain, Len had already finished a medical degree with several years of field experience prior to enlisting with Starfleet. He had been called into many an “advisory meeting” that had more or less turned into treatment counseling appointments. Pike’s sincere gratitude and the reports of Jim’s steadily improving health and comfort had made it all worthwhile. 

One day, Len had arrived to find a holo pic of the captain and his ward proudly displayed on his desk. In it, the kid was downright beaming, sunlight reflecting off of his golden hair as Pike slung an arm over his shoulders and looked down on him with clearly evident pride. Real progress had been made to help him recover from his trauma and begin leading a healthy, stable life. 

Looks like that had all been blown to hell with Pike’s death. 

He had been sent straight back into the hands of his abusive stepfather-- a man who had never showed any interest in having any children, let alone Jim Kirk, in his care. And with Jim’s mother absent enough to agree to hand over custody of her son to a man thousands of miles away while she was off gallivanting around the universe--

That brought about another question. 

“Where’s your ma at?” 

Jim shrugged again. “Dunno. Haven’t seen her since I was nine.” 

Jesus. Len dragged a hand down his face in frustration, careful to keep his ire contained so as not to give Jim any reason to think it was directed at him. What kind of woman abandoned her son like that? Ten years since he’d seen her. Surely she had been informed when Jim had returned from Tarsus… but then again, Pike had wound up with custody a mere week or two after the events if he recalled correctly. He wondered if she had any idea what had happened to her son in her absence. He wondered if she cared. 

“So you went back to--” 

“Look,” Jim cut him off, impatiently. “Can you just tell me how much you already know? It would save us a lot of time.” 

Len paused for a moment. Whatever Jim had to tell him about what had happened in the years since the Battle of Vulcan was going to be big, he had a feeling in his gut. Jim didn’t seem particularly upset by the revelation of the fact that he had been returned to an abusive man, so clearly in his mind that paled in comparison to whatever he was hiding. 

“I know that your life,” Len began, choosing his words carefully, “hasn’t been easy. I know about your stepfather, to some extent… enough to know it wasn’t good. And I know about Tarsus.” At this, Jim closed his eyes briefly, exhaling carefully to maintain his even breathing. Len wasn’t sure which of them was relieved not to have to talk about that particular time in Jim’s life at that moment. “So you were sent back to him,” he said. “And no one told you what happened to Pike?” 

“Nope,” Jim mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. “Social services showed up at the house and said there had been an ‘incident’. Next thing I knew I was on a shuttle and Frank was signing papers. God, he was pissed.” 

“Christ, kid,” Len murmured, unable to help himself. 

Jim grimaced disdainfully. “It is what it is.”

“What it is,” Len retorted, “it's bullshit. And I'm sorry.”

Jim looked at him searchingly before replying with a sigh, “It's not your fault.”

Len watched him for a moment. “Wasn't yours, either.” 

Jim hesitated a moment, an odd look in his eye, before nodding slowly. 

“So,” Len resumed their conversation. “You were sent back to Iowa and then--”

At that moment there was a knock on the door. Jim jumped, startled by the sound, panic flooding his expression for a brief moment before he forced himself to stand slowly to his feet. 

Len swore softly under his breath. Just when he was starting to get the kid to open up. Of all the piss-poor times someone could pop in for a visit. 

With a groan, he hauled himself to his feet and moved to answer the knock. 

“This won't take but a second,” he assured Jim over his shoulder as the door opened. 

As it slid to the side, he was greeted with the sight of Spock standing on his doorstep.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to the various folks on tumblr who helped me figure out the Vulcan terminology (particularly annaknitsspock) and to jimkirkachu for editing.

“Doctor,” Spock began, looking Len over before meeting his eye. “Pardon my intrusion. I simply came to assure myself of your well-being. I awaited your presence for our meeting, and when you did not arrive I assumed--” 

Oh shit, their meeting. With everything that had happened, he had completely forgotten. 

“God-- Spock, I’m sorry,” Len explained. “I meant to comm you. Something came up and I--”

He was cut off by Jim quietly calling from behind him. 

“Spock?” 

Spock’s brow raised slightly in surprise, his spine straightening as his sensitive hearing picked up the voice from within the apartment. His eyes darted from Len’s own gaze to the room beyond, seeking out the owner of the voice. 

Jim was across the room in an instant, stopping just behind Len who moved aside as his two guests stared at each other stunned, both appearing to want to speak but refraining for fear of breaking the silence. 

“Spock,” Len began cautiously, watching Jim for any negative reaction to a stranger following the conversation they had been having, “this is--”

“James,” Spock whispered, and Len swore he heard the faintest hint of disbelief in his tone as the Vulcan stepped into the apartment fully, for once forgoing the formality of requesting permission as if drawn by Jim’s presence. Halting a mere foot from where Jim stood, he repeated questioningly, “James Kirk?” 

For a moment, no one spoke. Jim nodded, clenching his jaw, and Len kept himself carefully still, not wanting to disrupt whatever moment the two seemed to be having. It was clear they recognized each other; Spock had, after all, been Pike’s first officer. It stood to reason that he had met Jim on occasion during those years, back when Jim had been no more than a young kid and Len had been knee-deep in his midlife crisis completing his academy career. 

Even so, even knowing logically that the two must have had some form of interaction in the past, Len would never have expected the reaction Jim had to Spock’s arrival. He watched Jim try and fail to break the silence, barely managing to whisper out Spock’s name before his expression crumbled, a sudden sob breaking free of his throat as he brought his hands up to cover his eyes in embarrassment, shoulders heaving.

The kid had been tightly wound all day, and if he were being honest with himself, Len would admit he had been waiting for something to push Jim to his breaking point, and a familiar face in the wake of the day he’d had and the news he’d received was a reasonable enough cause; but he never would have expected it to be Spock, of all people. Nor would he have expected for Spock to react as he did to Jim’s breakdown. Without hesitation, Spock stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the sobbing teenager, taking his weight as Jim began weeping in earnest, tearful apologies the only sound distinguishable amidst his sobs. Holding Jim upright against his chest, tucking the blond head below his chin, Spock began to murmur, “It is alright, James. You are safe,  _ pi’veh _ . I am here with you now.  _ Ki'sarlah nash-veh _ . ” 

Spock was not one for physical contact or for expressing patience in the face of human emotions, but he just held Jim and let him cry. He didn’t seem put off by it or frustrated by Jim’s clinginess. If anything, it seemed a familiar routine; Spock seemed to know exactly what to do.  

Len’s clinical eye did not miss the way that Spock held Jim, his arms locked around his back firmly-- not quite a hug, but none the less protective and reassuring if Jim’s continued tears were any indicator. In the limited time he had spent with Jim, the young man had guarded his emotions fiercely; Len met Spock’s eyes over his head, his concern and many questions clear on his face, but Spock simply gave a minute shake of the head and continued holding Jim. 

Len noticed, too, that Jim was careful not to initiate any skin to skin contact with the Vulcan, allowing Spock to determine whether or not to establish any telepathic connection. Clearly Jim knew a thing or two about Vulcan physiology.  There was history between the two of them for sure. 

A pointed glance from Spock alerted him to the fact that his door was still wide open, and he moved to close it as Spock continued allowing Jim to cry. 

After several long moments, Spock said, “Jim, let us sit down.  _ Bolau tu shom _ .  You are clearly fatigued.” He continued weaving Vulcan into his speech, but Jim did not seem phased by it, even if Len had no idea what was being said between the Standard phrases. 

Through his tears, a startled laugh escaped Jim, and he choked out, “You’re doing that mind reading thing, aren’t you?” 

Spock pulled away just enough to look Jim in the face before replying, “It is not necessary. I can see your exhaustion,  _ nu’ri-veh _ .” 

Spock’s words drew Len’s attention back to Jim’s physical state. The shadows under his eyes were visible even in the brightly lit entryway where the three stood, and with each passing minute he seemed to grow heavier on his feet; Spock continued supporting him, even as his tears slowed. 

A wince crossed the teen’s face, and Len was reminded, too, of the state of his ribs. No doubt his crying jog had been uncomfortable, if cathartic, and he would certainly be feeling it soon enough. 

“But--”

“Doctor, if I may?” Spock asked, releasing his hold around Jim to instead take him by the arm and gesture to the couch. 

“Course. You don't need to ask, Spock,” Len replied, following the pair back to the living room. “You either, Jim,” he tacked on as an afterthought. “You can go wherever you want in here.” 

“Uh,” Jim said as Spock gently pushed him to sit on the couch again. “Thanks. But really, I should get out of your way. You've been great but--”

“And where,” Spock began, perching on the seat beside Jim and raising and eyebrow, “do you plan on going? Are you staying somewhere within the city?” 

Jim’s cheeks flushed with shame as he looked to Len for backup. “Not-- not exactly.” 

“What has brought you here?” Spock asked hesitantly. “I have not seen you since--”

“I know,” Jim interjected softly. “It's been a long time. I-- Spock, I heard about what happened on… with Vulcan and…  _ S'ti th'laktra _ .”

Len wasn’t nearly as surprised as he thought he would be by the sound of Jim speaking Vulcan. He did wish he had a damn clue what the hell the two of them were saying, though. Spock answered that question a moment later as he replied, “My thanks. I grieve with thee as well. The loss of Captain Pike was… unfortunate.”

“Yeah,” Jim mumbled, picking at his thumbnail. 

Silence descended once more as Spock took in Jim’s appearance. Len could see the moment he noted the split lip and the tense way Jim held himself as his post-crying hitching breaths jostled his ribs. 

Finally, Spock began hesitantly, “James, I--” before switching gears. “Following the events,” he continued, careful to avoid mentioning Pike again in light of the awkward silence that had ensued, “I tried to find you, James. By the time we had returned to earth, you had vanished. Social services informed me that you had run off. Your stepfather reported you a runaway.” 

Jim laughed, a harsh exhale through his nose as he dragged a hand through his hair. 

“I must admit, I briefly entertained the idea. Your past with him is--” Spock trailed off with a cautious glance to Len, uncertain how much to reveal without Jim’s permission. 

“It’s ok, Spock,” Jim assured him quietly. “He knows. At least, he knows the gist of it. And he's sworn to secrecy.” With his last comment, he raised his eyes to Len’s and smirked, the closest to a real smile Len had seen yet. 

Len stared back, searching Jim’s face, taking note of his tense posture and anxious fidgeting. 

“You didn't run away,” he said lowly, watching Jim carefully. “Did you?”

Jim sighed before slowly shaking his head. “No.” 

Spock remained silent, still as a statue as he waited for them to speak again, but Len could sense his trepidation nonetheless.

“So… his report,” Len nudged. “It have anything to do with that behind your ear there?” 

Darting a glance at Spock, who looked to Len for clarification, Jim nodded hesitantly. 

After a long silence, knowing they were awaiting an answer and clearly more at ease with a familiar face present, Jim haltingly said, “Frank… um. He-- these alien traders came through after everything with Nero. Regulations lapsed anyway, not enough manpower left to enforce some of the larger scale stuff, y’know? And we were out in the boonies and--”

He trailed off, lowering his gaze to the floor and gnawing his lower lip nervously. 

After a few moments, Spock gently prodded him to continue with a softly spoken, “Jim?”

Jim laughed, a dark and ugly sound laced with bitterness and anger. Len glanced to Spock, taken aback by the sudden shift, and Spock, too, sat up straighter, concerned. Jim bit at his thumb, a cynical smirk emerging for a moment before he deflated before their eyes, slumping where he sat. 

“The bastard sold me.”

 

* * *

 

They were unable to coax much more from Jim that night; he was exhausted and overwhelmed, and Spock’s arrival had simultaneously eased his discomfort and heightened his anxiety over his circumstances. 

They learned that Jim had hardly been in Iowa a month before social services received the report that he’d “run away”. A cursory examination of the home had revealed little out of the ordinary. “Frank was careful,” Jim had said. “I knew he was up to something but I was too out of it to care much.” Spock was uncertain if Jim had meant simply that he had been left reeling from his sudden removal from San Francisco, without warning and without knowing why, or if something darker was implied in the comment. 

With no next of kin to notify aside from his mother-- who had apparently believed the story that he’d run off-- the search for him had been brief and concluded quickly. Jim’s brother, they learned, had run away years prior, which added credibility to the theory that the other Kirk might do the same. 

What had truly occurred was horrifying, and a hot flare of rage pooled within Spock before he carefully forced it away; it would do Jim no good to see his anger now. 

Jim’s stepfather had run afoul of some rogue traders who had wound up near Riverside for ship repairs. Having nothing else with which to barter, he had offered up Winona’s remaining son. Jim had put up as much of a fight as he could before being rendered unconscious, and had awoken bound and disoriented aboard a ship. He had been sixteen years old. 

The traders had kept hold of him for a while, putting him to work gathering materials for them when they went planetside and assisting around the ship. “That wasn’t so bad, actually,” Jim had mumbled. “They were decent enough most of the time-- just needed extra hands and a small enough body to get inside some weird places to get stuff and some occasional repair work on their cruiser when it started falling apart.”  Eventually, the love of wealth won out over Jim’s perceived usefulness to them. They passed him off to a group of rogue Romulan scavengers a year later. He was reluctant to discuss this portion of his tale in depth, but the shadows on his face spoke volumes of the trauma he had been subjected to at their hands. 

“The third time I tried to escape,” he said, rubbing his palms against the coarse denim on his thighs, “they put this thing in--” he tapped behind his ear where the data chip sat beneath his skin, “--and told me it was a tracker. I don’t  _ think _ it is. They haven’t found me yet, but--” 

Here, Spock asked, “How long has it been since you were last in their presence?” 

Jim chewed his lower lip thoughtfully for a moment. “It’s-- what month is it, March?” 

“April,” the doctor corrected from his seat, a hand over his eyes as he processed what Jim had revealed. “April twenty first.” 

Jim nodded. “April. So… eight months, give or take?” He glanced to Spock with a shrug. “They haven’t found me yet.”  

“Nonetheless,” Spock replied. “We will strive to have it removed as quickly as possible.” 

Jim nodded gratefully and hid a yawn behind his hand, which was beginning to shake in his exhaustion. Before Spock could advise that he retire for the night, Leonard had risen to his feet with a groan that spoke of stiff muscles. 

“C’mon, kid,” he beckoned, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers and nodding down the hall. “Let’s get your bed situated so you can get some shut-eye.”

Jim blinked at him tiredly, shock evident on his face. “Oh,” he said softly, glancing between the hallway and Spock before meeting the doctor’s eye. “I-- are you sure? I can--” 

“Rest, James,” Spock instructed gently, but with no room for argument. 

Jim hesitated a moment before rising to his feet. “I mean-- thank you,” he said to Leonard. “Thank you. Spock, are you--” 

“With the doctor’s permission,” Spock answered his unspoken inquiry, “I will remain here tonight as well.” He turned his gaze to Leonard, who nodded instantly. 

“Of course, Spock. Make yourself at home. I’m gonna go set up the guest room.” 

“My thanks, Leonard,” Spock said with a nod, also rising. At Jim’s continued hesitation, he stepped closer to the younger man and asked quietly, “Will you be able to sleep, or do you require assistance clearing your mind?” 

Jim flushed deeply and quickly insisted, “No, Spock, really. You’ve both done so much, you don’t have to--” 

“There is no shame in needing the help of others,  _ pi’veh. _ ” Jim smiled weakly at the name, familiar from a time that seemed so long ago. “I am happy to offer whatever I can to ease your mind. You are safe here, I promise you.” 

Jim nodded his understanding before a shuddering breath escaped him. “I’m really glad you’re here,” he whispered. Leonard’s footsteps and shuffled movements down the hallway would have masked the sound had Spock’s hearing not been so sensitive. 

“And I, you,” Spock replied, “more than you know. I had feared--” he interrupted himself; he would not divulge such thoughts to Jim, not now. “No matter; you are here.” 

At that moment, Leonard reappeared. “Guest bed is made up,” he declared. “Spock, you gonna be alright with the couch or--?” 

“Yes, doctor, that should suffice,” he responded, before returning his attention to Jim whose eyelids grew heavier with each passing moment. 

Jim nodded and made his way over to the doctor. Holding out his hand, he said, “Thank you, Bones. For-- for everything. I don’t know how to--” 

Len waved him off, taking the hand in his and gently pulling Jim into a one armed hug against his chest. “You don’t owe me anything, kid. Happy to help.” They pulled apart, and Leonard released Jim immediately, allowing him to step back a pace after the contact. “C’mon, your room’s this way.” 

Again, Jim looked to Spock, his uncertainty clear in his expression.

“Rest, James,” Spock said, seating himself on the couch to show that he had no intention of going back on his word and leaving once Jim was out of the room. “We have time. We shall speak again in the morning.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pi'veh- Little one.
> 
> Ki'sarlah nash-veh- I have come/I am here.
> 
> Bolau tu shom- You need to rest. 
> 
> Nu’ri-veh - Young one. 
> 
> S'ti th'laktra - I grieve with thee.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer than anticipated, and it's mostly filler. I apologize for the boring-- and short-- update. Things will pick up soon, I promise.

The second the door to the bedroom had closed behind Jim, Len slumped bonelessly against the couch. “Holy shit,” he muttered into his hands, rubbing fiercely at his eyes as disbelief and all of the events of the day caught up with him in one swift moment. “Holy  _ shit. _ ” 

Beside him at the opposite end of the sofa, Spock murmured, “I find your sentiment to be adequate.” 

“Jesus Christ,” he continued, unable to stop the shocked exclamations from flowing forth now that the kid wouldn’t be affected by them. “Spock, this is--” he trailed off, at a loss for words to adequately describe what they had heard. 

“Indeed,” Spock replied, seeming to get the gist despite Len’s momentary lack of vocabulary. “It is-- more unpleasant than I ever could have imagined.”

After a moment's pause, Len said “So you knew him-- before?”  

Spock nodded absently, his eyes still on the floor just ahead of him, distant with thought. “I did. I had only recently been appointed first officer for Captain Pike when he obtained custody, and as we were working together closely and with some fre quency he thought it best to introduce us. Did you not meet him a well?” 

Len shook his head before saying, “No. I was technically a student and I didn’t work with Pike a whole lot during my academy days. Saw pictures of the kid though, when I went to his office.” Recalling how Spock had immediately wrapped Jim in his arms and begun murmuring to him in Vulcan, a sharp contrast to his usually reserved manner, he continued, “Were you close?” 

Spock inhaled deeply before answering. “We grew to be quite good friends. We spent a fair amount of time together, particularly following Captain Pike’s suggestion that Jim learn to meditate. When he first came to stay with the Captain--” he paused, his eyebrows furrowing as he remembered. “He was in such pain, Leonard. He was so distrusting and afraid, so unsure of his own worth and of whom he could trust.” 

Len felt a melancholy smile pulling at his lips. “Lucky he had you and Pike, then.” 

“I did what I could,” Spock responded self deprecatingly. “It was not enough, but-- I taught him to meditate, to calm his mind and control the turmoil he felt so that it could not cripple his progress. We spent many afternoons playing chess together-- he is a formidable opponent when focused. I regret that you could not have known him then. He improved greatly under Pike’s care.” 

“How bad was it,” Len asked cautiously. “With his stepdad?” 

A dark flash of anger sparked in Spock’s eyes, and that told Len all he needed to know, even if Spock’s next words had not confirmed it. 

“Should I ever meet him,” the Vulcan spoke lowly, “he would not escape the confrontation unscathed.” 

“God,” Len whispered, unnerved by the implication of the depth of cruelty that had been inflicted on Jim when he was no more than a child. “I had a feeling-- Pike was never specific, but--” 

“I felt bandaging beneath his clothing,” Spock interrupted. “He is injured?” 

Len nodded. “His ribs aren’t in great shape, and he took a few hits before I came across him. He’ll be alright, but I would like to do a more thorough examination, if he’ll let me.” 

“Where did you find him?” Spock asked softly, and Len realized that they hadn’t gone over how Jim had come to be at his apartment in the commotion of his emotional reaction to Spock’s arrival. 

Len hesitated briefly, running a hand across the five o’clock shadow forming on his chin. “He was getting his ass handed to him by a store owner downtown. Got caught stealin’ some food.” 

Spock closed his eyes for just a moment too long, and Len could see that he was pained by that bit of information. 

“I truly believed--” he began before trailing into silence. “All this time, I truly thought that if he was at least away from his stepfather, he would be relatively safe. It seems I should have been more concerned with where else he may have been.” 

“Spock,” Len began, able to read the minute signs of pain in the Vulcan’s expression after their years of friendship. “There’s nothing you could have done. You had no rights, and--” 

“They had no right,” Spock interjected, his anger leaking into his tone as he fought to control his emotions. “No right to treat him thus. Surely there must have been some alternative to--” 

“Spock, you were twenty four years old. No court this side of federation lines would have granted you any custody rights over a sixteen year old kid with a documented next of kin. It was out of your hands.” 

Spock continued with his self deprecating diatribe in spite of Len’s attempts at reassurance. 

“Family is not determined by blood, Leonard. He trusted me. I promised Captain Pike that I would keep him safe.” His voice became flat, toneless as he continued: “I should have gone to visit him. I could have initiated a meld with his guardian, I could have sought the truth of his whereabouts--” 

“Spock--” 

“He deserved better, Leonard,” Spock finished, meeting Len’s eye for the first time since Jim had left the room. “After everything he had already suffered… was it not enough?” 

Len was helpless to answer that. Sometimes, life wasn’t logical; people even less so. Spock’s way of dealing with harsh circumstances was always to try to reason out the why and the how rather than accepting what had happened and trying to find a way forward. The time for that would come later, when he had processed the information or found a task to busy himself with. But if Spock would feel better with a bit of logic…

“Spock,” Len began carefully, watching as Spock carefully steepled his fingers together and rested his elbows on his knees, gaze on the floor. “You had just lost your mother, your planet… we-- it was chaos, you know that. And after Pike--” He swallowed against the dull ache of grief that still rose up with the mention of the man who had given him a second chance at life. And that grief was now coupled with the memory of Jim’s eager hope as he realized Len knew who Christopher Pike was, only to be crushed moments later with the revelation of his loss. “This wasn’t your fault. If you need to blame somebody, blame the prick whose body I’ll help you hide if he’s ever unlucky enough to meet us. Blame the courts that left him with that asshole in the first place. Blame his mom for not bothering to follow up on him wherever he was. But this isn’t your fault.”

After a moment, some of the tension left Spock’s shoulders and he nodded slightly. “Understood, doctor. Though I do believe it unethical for someone of your profession to make such thinly veiled threats of murder.” 

“Threats?” Len scoffed. “That was a promise.” God help Jim’s stepfather if he ever crossed paths with him; there wouldn’t be enough of a body left to hide. 

“What shall we do now?” Spock asked softly, his eyes drifting to the door down the hall which led to the room in which Jim was hopefully sleeping. 

“Now,” Len sighed, dragging a hand down his face and feeling the day old stubble on his chin as he did so. “Now, we try to do right by that kid-- for Pike. Tomorrow, I want to give him a more thorough check over, see if we can’t get that thing out of him-- tracker or not, I don’t want it in there any longer than it has to be.” 

Spock’s eyes narrowed slightly and he pursed his lips in thought. “It is highly unlikely to be a tracking device. As Jim said, he has been free of them for nearly a year and they have not yet determined his location that we know of.” 

Len raised an eyebrow in question. “What else would it be?” 

Spock glanced at him. “I believe I know how to find out.”  

 

* * *

 

 

Jim let the door close behind him before leaning against it heavily, bringing his hands up to tug at his hair. It was longer than he preferred; he’d need a haircut soon. 

Moving further into the room, he took in the sparse furniture. A bed, a nearly empty bookshelf, and a totally empty closet. The place must have come furnished; the doctor didn’t seem to have much past the bare minimum he needed to inhabit the space, and this was clearly a spare bedroom. There’s no way the guy would have bought furniture for a room he wasn’t going to use, if the rest of the apartment was any indication. 

Turning around on his heel he eyed the bare walls and took a deep breath. His chest jumped with hitching breaths from the aftermath of his tears as his anxiety spiked again. There was no lock on the door, which made him uncomfortable. The doctor seemed decent enough-- he hadn’t done anything to hurt Jim so far-- and Spock was out there, and had promised to stay the night as well. Spock wouldn’t lie to him, and he’d be able to hear if anything happened. He was safe here. 

He hoped. He felt safer than he had in a long time. 

Sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed-- and feeling a rush of relief when the frame didn’t creak or groan and draw any attention-- he reached into the band of his sock and removed his possessions. 

A small bag with a toothbrush, miniature tube of toothpaste, a razor that was just beginning to rust, and a comb. Usually he was able to find a public restroom where he could run a bit of water, brush his teeth, maybe wash his hair. If he was lucky, he was able to sneak into gyms or single unit bathrooms where he could quickly wash up in the sink. 

He placed the bag on the desk before gingerly lowering himself to lay on the bed. His ribs ached, but nowhere near as badly as they would have if they had been left unwrapped. He traced the outline of the bandaged gently with his index finger with a sigh. It had been a long time since someone had shown him kindness just because-- and Bones hadn’t even known who he was until he had already bailed him out with the store employee and offered to let him come back to his place. Jim owed him big time. 

He could hear the faint sounds of conversation from the other room. No doubt the two older men were discussing him and what to do next. A familiar spike of anxiety rose in his chest, but he forced it down. Spock was still out there. 

Spock was still out there with the man who had been nothing but nice to Jim so far, and they weren’t going anywhere. Not tonight. 

He was safe. 

For now. 


End file.
